


Seadweller Trucker Fucks Human Twink Mechanic (In Space)

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), Alternian Empire, Anal Sex, Biting, Come Inflation, Fantastic Racism, M/M, Outer Space, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Space Stations, Space Trucker AU, Unsafe Sex, Xenophilia, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29604915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: Dualscar survived his run-in with the Grand Highblood, escaped off Alternia, and somehow became a transport ship pilot. An unknown amount of time later, he meets Dirk Strider, a human engineer who signs onto his ship and has some unorthodox and honestly somewhat offensive ideas about troll courtship.
Relationships: Orphaner Dualscar/Dirk Strider
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	Seadweller Trucker Fucks Human Twink Mechanic (In Space)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ValorousOwl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValorousOwl/gifts).



> For ValorousOwl, as a trade. There may be a part two, possibly more! But I'm not very good at followup, so I apologize if it takes a long time.
> 
> That said, the tag "Fantastic Racism" is mostly about Dirk having a troll kink that very likely maps to a tasteless take on raceplay, so if you're not into that, might want to skip this one. If I miss any tags, feel free to tell me!

Your title was once the Orphaner Dualscar, but that was a very long time and a shameful head injury ago. Half your face has been replaced by smooth, symbiotic carapace, so the name Dualscar isn't exactly telling of what you look like anymore, either. Even if you'd still had two scars across your ruined visage, you've gained a good number more than that, and you don't feel like changing the nickname every time you get another one.

Let's start over.

Your name is Cronus Ampora, and you've been banished to the very edges of Imperial space. Technically, you banished yourself there with the last of your own remaining authority as the disgraced Orphaner. You had to call in maybe a dozen favors to survive the trip in a regeneracoon, and promise a dozen more to build yourself a robotic arm (which unfortunately still sparks and locks up when it gets a little too humid.) 

You've lost your station, half your good looks, and a whole lot of memories and impulse control, and on the _really_ bad nights, you forget where you are entirely.

In your none too humble opinion, at least, it's not as terrible as you were expecting when you woke up hundreds of parsecs away from Alternia. You have less of a crew to deal with (just about yourself and your helmsman, really, and he isn't a fan of conversation), you're in space instead of on-planet, and you deal more in controlled goods than the bodies of lusii, goods which as a general rule don't rot quickly enough to stink up the hold.

You've had more than enough sweeps to get used to it, at any rate. Maybe more sweeps than you really needed. You look into your reflection and sometimes it feels like you've always looked like this, though it's more likely you're just getting old.

Is that about enough introspection? It damn well should be. You're loading up cargo and there's an attractive twink trying to get your attention from a few yards away, or at least trying to get _someone's_ attention and yours will do just fine. Attractive twinks don't just fall out of the sky these nights, so it's in your best interest to pay attention.

You catch his eye and he squares his shoulders a little, like he's trying to puff up or look taller and more imposing. Maybe it would have worked if he had horns and grey skin. 

Humans aren't complicated. The dark, pointy eyewear makes it hard to tell quite where he's looking as he approaches you, but with the way he puts a practiced sway in his step, you think you know what this is about.

"Hey-"

"I don't do favors, take hitchhikers, or pick fights." You cut him off, and watch whatever script he had going on in his head fizzle out like water in a hot pan. This close, you can see the dark spots scattered across his cheekblades and the bridge of his nose, pale little scars drawing constellations across his face. There's a nasty one crossing his right eyebrow, and all of it only serves to emphasize the reddening flush creeping up underneath, the way his neck and the corner of his mouth twitch in surprise and embarrassment. You think you almost smiled just now. "Anything else, we'll need to negotiate."

"Can you hear a stranger out?" He asks. His voice doesn't crack. He still has to look up at you even when you bend to put down the crate you're carrying with a creaky groan (lift with your knees, man, though your knees aren't doing much better lately either), and there's a good chance he's noticed because if he puffs up any harder he's going to get himself dizzy. When you straighten up and pop your back, he holds out a hand and waits for you to shake it.

You look down at it.

"Dirk Strider." He says, and when you don't take his hand he shrugs and lowers it, though the flush across his cheekbones goes a little brighter.

"Cronus Ampora, though don't go telling anyone or they won't believe you." You don't think he's going to get the joke, but the surprise shows when he turns his head just slightly to see the tattered remains of one of your bright, violet fins. "I've got five minutes before I have to get back to restocking my supplies and taking my next shipment, and I'm willing to give you one, so make it count."

He clears his throat, pursing his lips before you make a little shooing motion with one hand and he dives right in. 

"I'm a freelance mechanical engineer and this place is a little too organic for me to get any work done. I mostly specialize in human technology, but I have a pretty good proficiency in Edenian and Lunar under my belt if I can get my hands on it, and the kinds of things warmbloods put together are similar enough to the things we humans come up with that I should be able to take a swing at it, too. Your ship has, to put it politely, seen _much_ better nights, and I think I can help keep it running for you."

You snort. "You're overqualified."

His face falls, just a twitch, before he pulls it back into place. 

"What do you mean?" 

You hope he's not trying to be cute, but it doesn't really look good if he's serious, either.

"Humans don't hand out valuable services for free, and I'm not made of money." You frown and feel the muscle tugging at the exposed metal across the side of your face. "Thirty seconds."

He smiles, sharply, and relaxes just a little. "So you're interested after all."

"I still haven't been sold and the clock's ticking, boy."

"Right, right." He shakes his head. "I don't want to keep you docked any longer than necessary, so if you're open to having someone mess around in your ship, you know, to upgrade it when it needs it, give it a good polishing, muck out the vents where you can't reach, or, hm." He eyes your mechanical arm. "If you don't want to _buy_ shock panels for the wiring in your arm, we humans have had a long history of working with electricity, so..."

He trails off. Evidently he expected you to cut him off again, which is more than you can say for a few other members of his species.

"I'd like to sign on as a member of your crew. Room and board, you'll hardly even know I'm there until a flickering bulb or a rattling vent is suddenly good as new." He readjusts his shades. "Between you and me, I'd charge more, but I've had way more'n enough of this meteor town's recycled air."

He lets that hang in the air while you stare him down. Those shades must have some kind of reflective coating, because you can't see his eyes no matter how hard you try as long as he keeps his face tilted up towards you. You consider telling him to fuck off, but you also consider a few other things; those being, you're getting old, your ship really has seen better nights, and most importantly of all, you have the space to spare. Not much space, but if it gives you what help you need, you'll take it.

You could use an extra set of hands. You look down at his dainty fingers and consider that they're organic, but sometimes flesh and blood are better for getting the job done. 

Besides, you don't have to sign him on forever.

"So what do you say?"

He cuts you out of your thoughts with the grace of a surgeon, aside from the fact that it's a surgeon wielding a bayonet. 

But you shrug it off; you've already made your decision.

"Two weeks. Think of it as your interview." You slap the side of the ship, and gesture for him to get in with your unbroken horn as you bend back down to pick up your crate. He doesn't comment, but he salutes you and makes his way to the open cargo hold with a lazy swagger that you know he must've perfected in front of a mirror.

You shake your head, but you help yourself to a nice, long look at his tight glutes before he actually does make his way into the hold. You're not going to lie to yourself; those glutes are half of the reason he's going to be here at all.

~!~

Dirk Strider's been signed onto this ship for about three and a half wipes now, almost a whole season, and he somehow manages to be exactly as infuriating as it takes to get on your nerves while being far too competent around the ship to boot off at the next station.

Sure, he's largely unobtrusive, and alright your bulge still does a happy little wiggle in your sheathe whenever he bends over his work station; he's so small you can easily imagine wrapping your hands around his slim waist and your fingers just barely touching at the small of his back. He's intelligent, faster on the uptake than you'd initially assumed when you were loading up cargo on that station, and when you catch him looking, you just _know_ he's smart enough to know the effect he has. You can't deny that it's at least a little attractive.

But he ducks his head with half a smile on his lips and gets back to tinkering, to debugging your ship systems, to chatting with your expressionless helmsman and pushing the water heater to its absolute limits (and he still has the gall to complain that it's too cold for him, this isn't a pleasure cruise you little shit.) 

It took him most of the first week to start  _flirting,_ in that infuriating catch-and-release way you're all too familiar with from when you still bothered entertaining mouthy human twinks; you know the pattern all too well. I t starts small, innocent enough; he presents you trinkets from every stop you make, and you tell him he's basically giving you back his salary every time he does it, but he insists.

"It's human custom to repay your boss for not firing you at the end of every contract." He says, looking up at you, chest still puffed out like it's going to do his short frame any favors. "And since our contract was to the next station, initially, and you never formally reviewed it, I think this is as close as it gets." 

You've been around enough humans to know that it's complete bullshit. You let it slide. You even display a few of your favorites on the dashboard.

But it escalates of course. You start finding him where he shouldn't be, just glimpses, like sun stains in the corners of your vision. He leaves just enough behind to let you know he's really been there, a whiff of his overpriced hair product, or a smear of engine oil. Small and distinct, enough to be unmistakable to you, but not enough to bring it up without sounding paranoid, and you're not up for playing this game at your age.

You can feel him watching you, while you pretend you haven't noticed at all. It was a matter of time before he started playing _obvious_ with it.

"Captain, there's an unauthorized heat signature in your quarters."

You tap twice on the metallic panel in your temple, opening up the viewport your helmsman is trying to show you, and lean back in the captain's chair with your heavy feet up on the console. He didn't alert you to a break, a leak, or even some kind of ridiculous deep space anomaly, and while you generally assume this helmsman is like any other and would like you very, very dead, he's had more than enough opportunities through the sweeps to go about it more efficiently.

"We both know it's Strider. I don't know why you call him that anymore. It's a mouthful." You say. He doesn't respond, but you're right.

You watch Dirk for a minute as he does something to your recuperalcove that you can't quite see. Then you stand up, dump your coffee in the biofuel synthesizer, and start making your way to the back of the ship.

You check the time. Five in the morning in Alternian standard, says the echo in the corner of your inner ear. Nap time, your old bones plead, despite the half a mug of coffee you've just downed. You doubt you're going to be sleeping in the next few minutes, unless he plans to get out of there when he hears you coming, through the vents maybe. It'd be a shame if he did.

Your recuperalcove's been refilled, thick with fresh slime. You didn't do that yourself, but it'd be easy enough to pretend you did; the consistency's just how you like it, not too thin but not too viscous, and just cool enough to be comfortable. 

It's more sopor than you let yourself use these nights, though. You always measure out two cups instead of the recommended four, to save up.

You flick one tattered earfin and start unbuttoning your shirt, and just as you start working on your belt, the door to your apparel casket creaks open, just slightly, just enough that you could pretend it didn't happen and it would be fine. You'd probably be better off pretending that didn't just happen, even. It'd be a waste of good slime not to make use of it while it's so nicely mixed.

The apparel casket creaks open a little further, the sound of it almost plaintive in a coquettish kind of way that immediately gets on your nerves. You know for a fact that you oiled the hinges yesternight, too, and if you hadn't then Dirk would have oiled them himself unless he had some reason not to, the neurotic little shit can't stand the sound of creaking hinges. There's a faint rustle of cloth, the thump of a heavy boot landing lightly against a box.

You sigh, and you don't want to give him the satisfaction of "catching" him, but if you're going to do this then by every pustule in the rift, you're going to do this.

"Alright, out with you. I know you're in there." You cross your arms across your chest, facing the apparel casket head on. "And don't make me drag you out, either. You're not a wriggler."

The door creaks open and Dirk holds his hands up. That he keeps his head low and his shoulders slumped would _suggest_ he was remorseful about being caught in here, if not for the fact that he kept glancing up at you as if waiting for a cue. His eyes are bright with anticipation, and more than a little barely-restrained desire. His clothes are artfully rumpled to crease and sag across his body as flatteringly as possible, showing off a bare shoulder and a sliver of his freckled hip.

You cross your arms.

"Not much for a direct seduction, are you?"

"I have no idea what you mean." His voice is carefully deadpan. You can smell the desperation rolling off him in waves, literally; he's sweating and flushed all over, giddy with the game he's playing. Your eyes drag down his lithe frame, slowly, and then back up just as slowly. He gulps, and you're pretty sure he practiced making it audible, too.

Fuck it. He wins.

He knows he wins, and he knows you know, and you don't give a singular fuck about him knowing anymore, because you're five hundred sweeps old at the last count you remember, and your last fuck marooned you on an icy moon half an Imperial century ago. He has, at least, the good sense to look nervous when a seadweller two feet taller than him gets within biting distance. 

You stop in front of him, drinking in his mock-sincere bashfulness. He thinks he's got you, hasn't he? But you're not as much of a dirty old fart as he might think you are, and not like the predatory old troll he might play at wanting. "Right, of course you don't. The shades come off if anything goes further than this, though."

That stops him. Clearly this wasn't in his plans for the morning. You think it might even get him out of your block, until he raises his head in defiance. 

"How about you take them off yourself?" Even he doesn't seem to know if he meant that to be sultry or challenging, and your pusher aches with something that may once have been pitch. He slides his feet apart slightly, light on the balls off his feet- ready for you to lunge, and for him to roll with it. You frown.

" I'm not risking lacerations from those things when we fuck." You say, matter-of-factly. He looks like he's about to protest, but you've got him pinned before he can say it; you didn't even have to move from your spot. Your hand, the flesh one, encircles his fragile neck with ease. "If you want to mark me up, you'll do it the old-fashioned way."

He swallows. You can feel it against your palm. You know very well that if he wanted to, he could stab you in the crook of your elbow with his screwdriver and escape with ease. You're docked on one of the more populated moons, even. It wouldn't be too hard for him to get another job, or for you to get a more work-focused mechanic.

You let him go and step back, though, because it looks like he might actually consider it. You step around him, even; he's got a straight shot to the door.

"It's that or get out of my cabin."

He looks at you, not like he had when you first met exactly, but not unlike that either. Calculating. Measuring. Whatever he just tallied up, he wrote up a whole sales pitch and then tossed it in the incinerator. 

You expect a little more drama, but he just takes off his shades and very gingerly places them on the pile of clothes he'd just been sitting in. When he looks up at you, your first thought is that he needs more sleep than you do. Your second thought is that he looks prettier this way, if not necessarily better. His eyes are heavy-lidded, splotched with bruise-dark undercircles, and the alien irises are bright, fluorescent orange. He chews his inner lip and then closes the distance between you again.

"Didn't take you for the chivalrous type." He says. Even with his hair and a little generosity, he comes up to maybe midway up your chest. There's still that awful _rehearsed_ quality to everything coming out of his mouth, but you can see his eyes darting around now, carefully avoiding yours. "But maybe that's being uncharitable of me. I was pushing my luck, and probably your patience, and you've done nothing but bear through it and treat me as a proper member of the crew. It's admirable. Honorable, even."

A tremor goes through you, entirely unrelated to Dirk's warm body pressed up against yours. It takes a moment to realize what it is; not a shiver, but a growl. 

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" You look down at him as you say it, standing to your full height. "Get to the fucking point."

"Gladly, sir."

He gets on his knees. Your brain takes a little while to catch up to the fact that he's still looking up at you, hands politely folded in his lap and throat delicately, tantalizingly bared. With his shades out of the way, it's actually _harder_ to read his expression, if only because you're so unused to seeing his eyes.

But there's no fear in them. You're not sure what he's looking at you with, though you can make a few reasonable guesses.

"If you'll excuse me for being coy earlier... actually, no, I don't want you to excuse me." His voice has gone soft and light, careful and breathy. "I've been a _very_ bad boy."

You want to disagree. But you also haven't let yourself have any fun lately, have you? Your bulge certainly thinks so, heavy and swollen in its sheathe, so you'll keep any disagreement to yourself, instead running your fingers through his hair. It's stiff, even the shoddy excuse for pressure sensors on your prosthetic arm can tell as much, but not so stiff that it doesn't have a satisfying amount of _give_ when you take proper hold of it next to his scalp, and the strands are fine enough that it's easy to wrap them around your fingers.

Dirk looks surprised and slightly dismayed when your grip tightens, hands coming up off his lap for a second before he puts them back down. "Hey, hey, warn me if you're going to mess up the hair; I spend way too much time on this whole look for just anyone to get grabby with it."

"Noted." You scoff. "And if there _is_ a next time, try to ask politely instead of playing up the troll-human interaction stereotypes as if we're living in a porno from the earlier half of this century."

He _purrs_ at that _._ "If that's what we're playing at, I call dibs on the pizza delivery boy."

You don't even want to ask. You focus on what's immediately in front of you instead; you can see him holding his breath, and the lump in the front of his too-tight jeans, when you reach down and undo your pants. 

He smirks at that, but you wipe that smirk off his face with a small tug, just enough to push his head back. The look of confusion when he sees the smooth, apparently seamless material of your flightsuit under your clothes is priceless, but not as priceless as how his eyes widen when your bulge squirms under the fabric. All the better when you undo the seal in the front just enough to let your bulge out, and he actually whispers a small "oh _fuck_ ," before it smacks heavily against his face.

His skin is warm under the slick flesh, and your bulge immediately tries to find somewhere to bury itself into.

"Cockslapped by what feels like an actual anaconda." He mutters, one eye eclipsed by the heavy length of your bulge. "Can't say I _haven't_ been in this situation before, but I'm still pretty impressed. How's that for lubing your pants-kraken?"

Your bulge answers by slithering down his cheek, the tip catching on his half-open lips before surging forward. Dirk takes five or six full, writhing inches with a surprised "schlurp", and more forces its way past his tonsils while he's too busy being surprised to pull back.

"Glughk-!"

He struggles against it for a second, but he still has enough self-control to keep his hands in his lap. Good; you reward him by pressing your shoe against the underside of his cock, watching him struggle between pulling back for air and humping against your foot. His throat twitches tight and hot around the length of you, and he gurgles and drools until you pull your bulge back out of his throat to let him breathe. He coughs, spit drooling down his chin and onto his shirt, violet-tinged saliva bridging his lips to your bulge.

He looks up at you, hazy-eyed and sweaty, his hair mussed under your hands and sticking to his forehead in slightly sticky clumps. His cheeks are flushed with lust and lack of air, and when you press your foot into him a little harder, he moans.

He _definitely_ looks better like this.

You let go of his hair and step back, dropping into a nearby chair. Your bulge is still writhing between you, undulating in lazy arcs as it searches for the heat of his mouth; and before he can stop himself, before _you_ can stop him, he chases after it with hands and lips. 

One hand steadies him against the floor, forcing his back into a graceful curve that you momentarily want to run your fingers down. The other takes hold of the point of your bulge right behind the spaded tip, in the sensitive crease where the head meets the tapered shaft. His fingers are warm even through his gloves, but nowhere near as warm as his eager mouth.

"That's it..." You moan, your bulge taking the opportunity to slide wetly between his lips and fingers. He takes the encouragement and really _goes_ with it, bobbing his head and slurping you down inches at a time before pulling back and slobbering all over the spaded head like a pornstar. You don't know how much he can take exactly, but it's a pretty tight fit already, and it only gets tighter the further he goes; he's already gone past the point you'd pushed him to earlier, fighting his own aching lungs like he has something to prove.

You can't have that, though, so you grab him by the hair again and ease your bulge out; slowly, inch by inch, so he can see it coming out of him in a single, long coil. You wipe it against his face again when he's gasping for air, smearing his cheeks with thin, violet geneslime and his own spit.

He glares up at you, breathing hard. "Need some ice, grandpa?"

"For you, maybe." You scoff, ruffling his hair and making him scowl harder. "Cool your heels a little, you don't need to hurt yourself."

"I appreciate the concern, but consider my counter-argument." He licks a long, hot stripe up the underside, teasingly nibbling at the tip with just his lips. He doesn't break eye-contact through the whole thing, and just when the heat is almost, _almost_ too much, he pulls back. He wipes his mouth on the back of his arm. "Maybe I _want_ you to hurt me. You know I can take it."

You wouldn't be surprised. But you don't let it show on your face as you wrap your hands around his head and _slam_ your bulge back down his throat, this time all the way to the base. 

His eyes go wide and teary as he scrabbles at your thighs, but you keep him down until the scratching turns into simply holding onto you. Your bulge twists and lashes deep inside of him, and despite your earlier resolve not to play his games, you have to admit that you take some satisfaction in hearing and _feeling_ him gag around the heavy length. When you've had enough of that you yank him off, and before he can say anything, you wrap your fist around his warm, vulnerable throat.

You feel him gulp, gasping like a fish; you can feel his pulse thrumming against your palm, fluttery as a trapped bird. He laughs, and you can hear the nervousness in it even as he tries to play it off. "Ngh, _fuck me already,_ "

You squeeze just enough to choke him again, and yank his pants down over his hips. His cock bounces to attention as soon as it's released from the confines of those stupidly tight jeans, and you wonder to yourself, as you let go of his throat and drag him forward by the front of his shirt, if all humans are this masochistic or if you just got _very_ lucky.

Dirk moans, shameless and eager, as you run your teeth along his collarbones and hike his thighs up over your hips. His ass fits nicely into your hands, small and compact with a slight bit of give to the flesh that tenses easily when you smack one of his perky cheeks, and you amuse yourself a little by keeping him still as your bulge licks a stripe from his taint to the top of his tailbone and back again. You really should prep him more- even with your bulge's natural lubricants, it's going to be a tight fit.

He nibbles your earfin, breathing hotly against your neck. "If you're wondering about prep, I took care of that, now would you _please_ just fuck me into next wee-"

The desperation in his voice makes you laugh, but you follow it up by pushing your hips upward to meet him, dropping him onto the squirming length of your bulge. It takes notice of the heat pretty much immediately, and you're torn between what to focus on as soon as it catches the tight rim of his chute: The look on his face, wide-eyed and gasping and then scrunched up in concentration and ecstasy, or what feels like the tightest, hottest hole you've ever tried to cram your bulge into in your entire life.

" _Fuck,_ you greedy little _whore_ , you call this prepped? How badly were you underestimating me?" You grip his hips while he writhes on top of you, his insides _strangling_ your bulge like he's never had anything in him so deep. Or maybe it's just that you've forgotten how small humans tend to be, how delicate and breakable. The idea that you _could_ break him, easily even, stokes the fire in your gut like gasoline poured over a torch; it was hot before but now you're digging your claws into his thighs, bouncing him up and down. Dirk wraps his arms around your shoulders, rolling his hips down as you lift him off your bulge, trying to take you deeper despite how his body protests.

There's eagerness and then there's self-destruction, and the idea that he might be so hungry for you that he can't tell the difference is _maddeningly_ arousing, shutting off your higher functions and leaving behind raw, all-consuming _need._ You wrap your arms around his tiny waist, relishing in the little gasping noise that the embrace squeezes out of him, and then the bone-deep surge of pleasure as you pull him all the way down on your bulge.

Dirk claws at your back, at your shoulders, but he doesn't pull away or tell you to let go. When your mind is clear enough to hear him, he's _begging_ for it, "please," and "oh god," and " _fuck me_ ," spilling from his lips in a verbal tide.

You oblige.

Your bulge coils through the deepest parts of him as you roll your hips up against his ass, trying to get deeper than you already are. He whimpers, and then moans, and then grabs you by the horns and crushes your lips together, cutting his mouth on your teeth- the taste of blood only makes you want more, makes you plunge your tongue into his mouth as deep as you can, choking him on it. You can taste yourself in there, mingling with the hot, coppery taste of his blood, and the slightly saltier taste of your own as your teeth nick your tongue in your frenzy for more.

He tilts his head back as you fuck him with tongue and bulge, as you swallow his noises straight from his mouth. You don't even care that there isn't a bucket in sight; he wanted this, he's going to have to deal with the consequences. You feel his flesh give under you, probably bruising; you feel him tighten up around you as much as he can, rutting against your belly as if he doesn't have nearly a foot of bulge stuffed inside him. He breaks the kiss to breathe and you attack his shoulder; and you only have just enough of your conscious thought left not to completely maul him as you do. 

Not that he's making it easy of course; he grabs your hair, bucking in your grip, and he doesn't even guide you _away_ from the tender, vulnerable curve of his throat, soft and warm under your lips. He whimpers, but not in fear.

"Please," He begs, breathless with all the space you've taken up in him. "Please, I'm going to cum, don't stop, _please, oh, **fuck** -_"

You had no intention of stopping, and his announcement, his husky, desperate tone, sets off something animal inside you instead. You growl, deep in your chest, as you close your jaws around his throat and snap your hips up into him, claws digging into his skin, eyes screwed shut as you empty your slurry into his guts. Your bulge lashes inside him, wildly, uncontrollably, and he shudders and moans from the onslaught. You feel warmth dripping against your belly and it takes every ounce of your flagging willpower not to rip into him then and there.

Fuck, you probably almost gave yourself lockjaw. If you do this again (you will) you should probably introduce him to the concept of a fang guard.

Or maybe near-death experiences get him off, judging by the white, sticky stain dripping down your abs.

You groan in exhaustion, your joints creaking in an entirely different, less sensual way. Dirk pants and squirms on top of you as your bulge recedes- you'll have to wash thoroughly later, you don't know exactly what's in there after all- and you grimace as slurry and probably streaks of blood and gods know what squirts onto your lap. At least you kept your clothes on, mostly, so that minimizes actual contact with it, and judging by how bloated he is, how sick he's starting to look, he's doing his best to keep most of it in.

"Get to the bathroom, boy." You slap him awake, lightly, and he nods and gingerly peels himself off of you. A few minutes later, he's back, still not wearing his shades but in a fresh change of clothes and with considerably less roundness in his gut. He looks exhausted, but you're not letting him off that easy.

You toss his shades at him and then when he catches them, a mop. _You_ are going to change, have another bath, and get some sleep.

"Not one for aftercare, are you?" He mutters, leaning on the mop handle as he watches you go. He's still breathing a little hard, still slightly sweaty, and the bruises are starting to show on his skin. "Or is that not a thing that's popular with Alternians?"

"Consider it old-fashioned adherence to traditional values." You answer. "And make no mistake, I'm not open to quadranting you after that, either. Feel free to suck my bulge, but find someone your own age to burn coal with."

He raises an eyebrow at the idiom, you honestly can't tell if you should lament today's generation, or humans.  You shake your head and make for the shower.


End file.
